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Book_ 



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POEMS 



POEMS 

BY 

ANTOINETTE QUINBY SCUDDER 




PRIVATELY PRINTED 

THE DEVINNE PRESS 

NEW YORK 

1921 



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<\K 



Copyright, 1921, by 
Antoinette Quinby Scudder 



OEC 16 192 



©CLA630835 



TO MY FATHER 
WALLACE McILVAINE SCUDDER 



CONTENTS 

POEMS 

PAGE 

Young Grandmother i 

Mussel-pearls 4 

Sunset on the Marshes 5 

A Shell 6 

The Virgin's Lace 6 

Beauty Triumphant 8 

Yet, Once — 9 

The Deserted Palace 10 

Nasturtiums 12 

August Eve 13 

My Lady's Sampler 14 

The Moors at Nantucket 15 

Psyche's Sleeping 16 

Northern Sunset 18 

The Old Mirror 19 

Via Della Madonetta . . . . . .21 

Seashore Memories 23 

Ursule's Missal 24 

Fairy Song 25 

Of Her 26 

Aqua-marines 26 

Azaleas 27 

Sunset Near an Old Chateau .... 28 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



The Vinaigrette 30 

A Find 3 2 

The Moon-dial 32 

Adoration 34 

Jeanne and a City Garden 34 

Angel-fish 35 

The Chine 36 

Two Little Ladies 37 

Mystery 39 

In My Love's Garden 42 

The Swallow Vases 43 

Old English 44 

Her Ladyship's Fan 45 

An Antique Earring 47 

Corals 47 

Hauviette's Prayer 48 

A Provincetown Summer 49 

My Lady's Vinaigrette 51 

The Nereid 52 

A Medieval Symphony 53 

A "Nef" Jewel 54 

SONNETS 

Old Jewelry 59 

Avignon 59 

Hollyhocks . 60 

Antinous 61 



CONTENTS 



TACE 



Rain in an English Garden 6 1 

Marie de France 62 

An Old Cameo 62 

October Evening . . 63 

Saint Nereid 63 

The Bead Bag 64 

Three Sonnets to Beatrice .... 64 

A Chateau in the Aisne 66 

California Poppies 66 

Penthesilea 67 

The Tuileries in March 67 

The "Morning-glory" Geyser . . . .68 

The Miracle 69 

Venetian Vases 69 

The Forest of Compiegne 70 

A Princess of Egypt 72 

The Sea Anemone 72 

Deirdre 73 

The Mother of Merovee 73 

On the Mosaic of a Byzantine Empress . 74 

Autumn 75 

Narcissus 75 

CINQUAINS 

Waiting 79 

NlEGE 79 

Esther 79 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Midsummer Eve 79 

The Humming Bird 80 

The Apple 80 

Dragon-flies 80 

Mary Stuart 80 

Sails 81 

The Fountain 81 

The Shell 81 

Souls 81 

Sirvente 82 

The Priestess 82 

An Old Garden 82 

Jewels 83 



on 



POEMS 



YOUNG GRANDMOTHER 

The summer that I spent with my grandfather 
In the white house the maple trees among 

Seems a faint nightmare now — the looming terror 
Of rooms that looked so wide and high and long 

The shallow mirrors reaching to the ceiling 

Their gilded grapes and vine-leaves tarnished all, 

The mantelpiece upborne by marble Satyrs, 
The dark old portraits frowning from the wall 

The chandeliers their thousand prisms dangling 

Like icicles upon a windless night, 
The cat-tail rushes standing up so stiffly 

From the huge jars of cloudy blue and white. 

Grandfather seldom noticed me; a silent 
Grey man was he, and always sitting by 

His tall carved desk beneath the oriel window 
That stared down at him like a great round eye. 

My two great-aunts — yes, both of them were 
maidens, — 
Stiff-waisted, thin, with locks of yellow-grey 
Looped smoothly over ears of shape patrician, 
And high cheekbones where withered rose-tints 
lay. 



I heard them sometimes talk of my grandmother 
Long dead — a tender creature April-souled 

For play and laughter meant, who feared the 
silence 
And gloom as flowers fear the winter cold. 

They said "Poor thing, she never had her girlhood, 
Scarcely sixteen when she became a bride, 

And then the children came so close together 
Till when the youngest one was born she died." 

To me she was a myth I rarely thought of, 
Unreal, for all grandmothers that I knew 

Were wrinkled white-haired ladies. So the time 
passed, 
And I was rather sad and lonely too 

Until one day at sunset I was going 

To fetch the croquet things off from the green 
And where the maples cast their deepest shadow 

I met a girl I ne'er before had seen. 

And she was very tall and very slender, 

With quaintly snooded locks of darkest brown, 

Beneath arched brows her eyes shone golden-hazel, 
She wore a crocus-tinted muslin gown 

And gathered high above her dainty ankles, 
Provokingly, a seashell gleam of flesh 

I glimpsed between the narrow, silken ribbons 
Criss-crossed upon her stockings' snowy mesh. 

1*1 



She did not speak, but from her eager glances 
And smile I guessed she wanted me to play. 

Lightly she touched my shoulder with her fingers, 
Then fleet as any fawn she sped away. 

I pelted after, but though quick and nimble, 
Not like that swift enchantress could I run. 

We circled the great bed where gladioli 

Stood up lance-straight in challenge to the sun. 

Past the low fence where coral-honeysuckle 

Glowed fiery sweet, and tall blue larkspurs peered 

Out of the yellow tangle of the cosmos, 

And always she'd evade me when I neared 

Her fluttering skirts. We scampered helter-skelter 
Across the croquet-lawn where balls still lay 

Between the lurching wickets. I remember 

How she looked back and laughed. And then, 
away 

Down to the lofty hedge along whose greenness 
Cherokee roses glimmered foamy white, 

And flashed around it. But when I had followed 
Through the small gateway she had vanished 
quite. 

I called and searched and called again, but nowhere 
That airy, flashing presence could I see — 

My great-aunts found me crying by the roadside 
When through the thickening dusk they sought for 
me. 

m 



But when I told them of my strange playfellow, 
Her hazel eyes and snooded locks of brown, 

And cheek like a white rose the sun has darkened, 
Her mauve-lined scarf and crocus-colored gown, 

I saw them both turn pale. They watched each 
other 

With furtive eyes, though not a word they said — 
They made me drink a glass of cherry cordial 

And eat a cooky ere I went to bed. 

My playmate did not come again. But only 

After long years had passed with joy and teen, 

I understood at last why I must never, 

No, never tell Grandfather what I'd seen. 



MUSSEL-PEARLS 

These frail, exquisite things, these changelings 

from the deep, 
My captives — at my will 
They lie, so pure, so still 
As trembling on the misty verge of sleep 
See how the tender dream-light comes and goes 
Lilac and silver, orange, palest rose 
So delicate that did the sweet 
Faint odors that arise 
From iris or moonflower to our eyes 
Take cloudy shape and fleet 
They might resemble these. Yet on them lies 
A shadow haunting, strange 

C4] 



Their likeness to the parent Sea, 

Mother of Sorrows she, 

Sister to Death and Change. 

And scarce my heart can bear the aching stress 

Of such remote and wistful loveliness. 

— Nor would I yield them even to the grace 

Of her whom I adore, 

My Lady of the Blessed Face, 

Were it not ancient lore 

That when the sea-sprites win a mortal's love 

They gain a soul thereby 

In guerdon from above. 

And when at last they lie 

Those foam-white breasts of hers between 

Something of her own spirit star-serene 

Must with a new 

More holy grace their elfin charm endue. 



SUNSET ON THE MARSHES 

No wind bends the yellowing grasses, 

But the small pools glitter and tremble 

As though the marsh-queen had broken her 

necklace 
Scattering far and wide 
Its garnets and spinel-rubies. 
Barbaric in color the mosses, 
Burnt orange, vermilion, umber — 
Yet here beside my foot 
Is a tiny patch that glimmers 
Like a constellation of fairy stars 
Carved each of pale emerald. 

m 



A SHELL 

You bit of draggled gossamer, 
Grey as my heart, grey as my sorrow- 
Yet now, when I hold you 
Between my eyes and the sun 
You are wondrously rayed and irised 
With lilac and pink and yellow. 

THE VIRGIN'S LACE 

Mary called her maidens all, 

Wheresoe'er they chanced to be — 

Margaret and Hildegarde, 

Called the sweet-voiced Cecily. 

From the mystic bower where 

Four bright streams of water meet, 

Where she taught the youngling birds 
Chant and hymn and carol sweet 

— Ah, the quaintly nodding heads, 
Ah the glossy, rounded throats — 

How they chirruped, piped and trilled, 
Mimicking her clearest notes. 

Agnes and Eulalia 

From the fragrant meadows sped 
Where the Holy Children played 

Weaving for each curly head 

Daisy-bud and violet 

With the golden crocus bound, 
Till the garland closely wreathed 

Hid the halo's shining round. 

[6] 



Mary quoth "Let all attend — 
'Tis no time for song or play: 

We must toil at weaving lace 
Even to the close of day." 

All the sky a pillow made 

Smoothly folded for her knee, 

Azure velvet, and the pins 
Stars of purest crystal be. 

'Twas grave Luke the artist-saint, 
Drew the patterns, tracing well, 

Twining stems of amaranth, 
Pointed leaves of asphodel. 

In a circle sat the fair 

Maidens all, and chanted low, 
While beneath their fingers light, 

Swift the shining web did grow. 

Once the heedless Magdalen 
Tore the dainty woof across — 

Straightway with her golden hair 
Did she mend the pattern's loss. 

Might the jewelled bobbins fall — 
Jasper, sardonyx — why then, 

Fleet the laughing cherubs ran, 
Prompt to pick them up again. 

So they toiled till eventide, 

And when every stitch was done, 
Hung it where its beauty showed 

Frail against the setting sun. 

m 



We have seen it oftentimes, 
Fragile wonder of the past — 

Whorl and spiral delicate 

And we deemed it would outlast 

Steel and granite — yet we know 
Brutal hands have torn the lace 

Wrought by Mary and her maids 
Ruined all its airy grace. 

— Michael of the Fiery Sword, 
Smite and fiercely smite again 

Those who rent the priceless web, 
Made the blest ones' labor vain. 



BEAUTY TRIUMPHANT 

Across the meadows swung the train 

By black roofed sheds and earth-cuts raw, 

And I half choked with dust and steam 

Peered through the blurring glass and saw 

How in great waves of grey and brown 
The smoke and salty fog were rolled. 

Heavily plunged the dying sun 

And blew a wrathful spume of gold. 

The monster signs that boast of soap, 
Chocolate, thread were hid each one; 

Between slant grass, the scattered pools 
Vivid as unset garnets shone. 



And where the rolling clouds would glow 

Vermeil or crimson angrily 
Rose in a cluster straight and tall 

The chimneys of a factory. 

They might be stamens grouped within 
The deep heart of that swarthy rose; 

Or shafts of rough pearl rising from 

Some dim haunt that the sea-king knows. 

And watching them I thought in spite 

Of dirt and ugliness and sin 
Beauty will never vanquished be — 

Triumphant still she enters in. 

YET, ONCE— 

Never again, my dear, shall we together 
Walk the long lanes in glory of the year, 

Through pearl and purple of the April twilight 
As once we did, my dear. 

And see the soft clouds blown like lilac petals — 
All things had such strange grace when you were 
near — 

Across a sky of palest honey color, 
As once we saw, my dear. 

Never again, I'll know that you are calling 
In the low voice that only I might hear 

Through darkness and the steady throb of rainfall, 
As once I knew, my dear. 

191 



It cannot be again — your strong arms round me, 
The full heart-surge and the exquisite fear — 

Never — till all the stars like dust are scattered- 
Yet — once it was, my dear. 



THE DESERTED PALACE 

The slender columns rising 
Above the dusky water 
Are pomegranate marble, 

The low archways between 
Are wreathed with drooping poppies 
And hundred-petalled daisies 
Each wrought in creamy stucco 

Dimmed by the shadows' green. 

But row on row above them 

Stare round-browed glassless windows 

From walls whose ancient whiteness 

The sun and rain have streaked 
With lemon, rose and lilac; 
And on the shallow stairway 
A thousand shells are lying 

With strangest colors freaked. 

For some of satin paleness 

Are flecked with deep carnation, 

And fragile, spiky Venus-combs 

Meant for the mermaids' hair, 
And brittle scallops mottled 
And rayed like pansy-petals, 
And tiny, pink-lipped conches — 

Who could have brought them there? 



The pavement's rare mosaics 
Are cruelly scarred and shattered, 
I guess a nymph, a triton, 

A writhing, scaly shape 
Each crowned with blue sea-lilies; 
Here fair-haired Ariadne 
Bewails her faithless Theseus, 

There's proud Europa's rape. 

The panelled ceilings likewise 
Though weather-stained and mouldy, 
Reveal in dim presentments 

Huge shapes, half god, half beast, 
Of gorgon, sphinx and titan — 
Now, should I have the courage 
To sleep in that great chamber 

That looks toward the east? 

What should I see at midnight 
Against the pale walls painted 
With clustered grapes and roses 

Quick flitting here and there? 
A ghostly cavaliere 
Superb in tawny velvet 
Wide ruffed and jewel cinctured, 

Or phantom lady fair? 

Or should I hear ere sunrise 
Slow climbing from the gateway, 
That low gate to the westward 

That fronts upon the sea, 
A Something upward dragging 
From step to step its heavy, 
Cold, glistening coils — and nearer — 

Oh, shrinking heart of me ! 



— Or should I sleep till wakened 
By crying of the sea-gulls, 
And looking toward Friuli, 

See all the broad lagoon 
O'erstrewn with faint cloud-petals 
Of hyacinth and primrose, 
With distant church-bells throbbing 

To drown the dead years' rune? 



NASTURTIUMS 

Poised on your sallow tendrils 
You witchlike, arrogant blossoms, 
You stare from your glass-walled prison, 
Alluringly insolent. 

Your smooth green leaves are rounded 
Like the leaves of water-lilies — 
But yours is no naive, tender 
Nymphean loveliness. 

Like a blare of fairy trumpets 
You shake and shatter the silence 
With a delicate fury of color, 
With scarlet, yellow, maroon. 

Perhaps you are elfin rockets 
All flaring in celebration 
Of some cruel triumph, unfurling 
Crisp petals of gauzy flame. 



D"3 



AUGUST EVE 

Somewhere, beyond the fields whose smoke-grey 

slopes are haunted 
By timid ghosts of spring; the wild carrots' lacy 

clusters 
Thick among the mistlike drift and swirl of the 

asters 
Lavender-petalled 

Somewhere beyond the hill that rounds itself on the 

skyline 
With a curve as sweet as that of a dryad's shoulder, 
Farther — beyond the wood all black and mystic and 

silent, 
Somewhere, my dearest 

Lies the lake we know, with its deep, moon-haunted 

waters, 
Never a dusk-winged moth to trouble the lucid 

shadows, 
Never a wind to start the lisping speech of the 

rushes 
Sleepless and eager. 

Yet, since you are not here, my soul of spring and 
autumn, 

I shall not dare the soft, dark embrace of the wood- 
nymphs, 

Nor shall I seek the lake, but leave its lilies floating 

Still in the starlight. 

C>3] 



MY LADY'S SAMPLER 

Heigh-ho, my winsome Lady — 

You're striving hard, I know, 
To match your great-grandmother 

Who many years ago 
A sampler worked in cross-stitch; 

It hangs upon the wall 
In frame of polished walnut, 

Its hues scarce dimmed at all. 

She wore her dark hair parted 

In neat and glossy bands, 
The only jewel that ever 

Adorned her pretty hands 
Was just a wee gold thimble, 

Its rim set round with blue 
Forget-me-nots of turquoise, 

A gift of lover true. 

Your flying fingers sparkle 

With diamonds and pearls, 
And sure, I think the sun-sprites 

That haunt those gleaming curls, 
Unless they prove more wary 

Than they have been to-day, 
In such a golden tangle 

Are bound to go astray. 

She worked her sampler heedful 
Of every stitch and slow, 

With purple-breasted peacocks 
And fir-trees in a row — 



Such tiny trees o'ershadowed 

By crimson roses tall, 
And lastly, in one corner, 

A sprig of heartsease small. 

You work such dainty patterns 

Of bright-winged butterflies, 
Fantastic birds whose plumage 

Is of a hundred dyes, 
And lovers' knots entwining 

Of palest pink and blue, 
But ere you've finished, sweetheart, 

Oh, work a Heart's-ease, too. 



THE MOORS AT NANTUCKET 

FOR K. C. B. 

That evening before we started 

From Sconset, the afterglow 
Was like fiery-hearted opals 

That are brought from Mexico. 

For the sea was of darkest cobalt 

From your friend's porch looking down, 

Though it churned into molten garnet 
Where the red rock-mosses drown. 

And the great hydrangeas growing 

On the windy cottage lawn 
Were purple and madder-tinted 

By the hour we must be gone. 

Ds3 



Then we drove over rolling moorlands 
Where fleeted along each slope 

The eeriest, softest colors, 
Fawn, daffodil, heliotrope. 

And the sky that waited the bashful 
Girl-moon and her bridesmaid star 

Was a clearer pink than the petals 
Of the swamp hibiscus are. 

How broad and sheeny and waveless 

The ocean lay in our view, 
Faint tints of nacre and beryl 

And of pale rose-jacinth too. 

And the little town that patterned 

So clear on the distant sky 
With the windmill sails outspreading 

Like the wings of a dragon-fly. 

And we dared not laugh or whisper 
Lest a word should be the death 

Of the fragile wonder that held us 
As frost holds a passing breath. 

— But do you remember, Kathie, 
How suddenly on our right 

A great owl soared from the bushes 
Ghost-grey in the waning light? 

PSYCHE'S SLEEPING 

Psyche's sleeping — 

For an hour lying still 

With her dark hair at the will 

H(>1 



Of the restless breeze that fanned 

All its dimly purpling floss 

Hither, thither — one small hand 

Lies palm upward on the moss. 

No more wistful sweet to see 

Rosy-veined anemone 

In the woods March winds are sweeping. 

See you not 

Weary Psyche's gently sleeping? 

Hush. 

Psyche's sleeping — 

Look, a tiny butterfly 

Azure-tinted, hovers nigh 

Blossom of her lips half blown 

Then, a darting sunray gleams 

Over fast closed lids whereon 

Dusky-winged, the god of dreams 

Stealing all unknown, I wist 

Set his seal of amethyst. 

Did a shaggy faun come creeping, 

Would he not 

Leave her pure and fragrant sleeping? 

Hush. 

Psyche's sleeping — 

See, how motionless there rests 

'Twixt her faintly heaving breasts 

Treasure Venus gave to guard, 

Casket wrought in ruddy gold, 

Ebony and priceless sard 

Direful magic doth it hold 

Fearsome spells that none may break — 



Did she from her slumbers wake 

'Twere to woe and endless weeping. 

Know you not 

'Tis the soul that lies here sleeping? 

Hush. 

NORTHERN SUNSET 

Steel with a thousand gilded ripples lined 

The broad sea glitters like a Viking's shield 

And o'er its rim the red Berserker wrath 
Of the fierce sun is vividly revealed. 

See how the fiery splendor upward streams 
Toward the zenith, slowly changing them 

To trembling filaments of purest gold 

Sweet Freya's tresses loved of gods and men. 

But are they cloud or mountain, those soft peaks 
With tints of pearl and amber sheening fair? 

Too delicate they seem for shapes of earth, 
And yet too tender for the forms of air. 

No swift Valkyrie winds are there to swoop 
And cry above the small grey sails that creep 

Into the harbor whose vast curve appears 
A giant's arm outflung in tranquil sleep. 

A single gull floats wide-winged in the light, 
But not a wave uplifts its shining crest, 

For sky and air and ocean hold the peace 

The wondrous peace of mighty strength at rest. 



THE OLD MIRROR 

Up in Grandmother's room there hung such a queer 

old mirror — 
The glass was blurred and streaked as by touch of 

unseen fingers, 
The gilded frame was carved with rosettes and 

twisting ribbons, 
And at the very top was set a curious painting. 

It showed a little girl with her dark hair smoothly 

braided 
Beside her rosy cheeks. She was wearing a dress of 

crimson, 
Kerchief and snowy apron and buckled shoes. She 

carried 
A basket on her arm and seemed to be slowly 

walking 

Down an ochre-yellow road bordered with stiff 

green pine-trees 
That hardly reached to her shoulder. Behind her 

glowed the sunset — 
I used to think its hues like those of the luscious 

ices, 
Strawberry, lemon, pistache we ate at children's 

parties. 

— Once, when I had been sick, I lay and watched 

her and wondered 
If she could ever speak, and what she had in her 

basket 



Huckleberries perhaps, or clusters of spicy 

currants — 
Wished I might follow her and find out where she 

was going. 

I thought the road would lead somewhere to a tiny 
cottage 

Guarded by huge sunflowers; behind its curtained 
windows 

Would peer a wrinkled face perhaps of a kind god- 
mother, 

Perhaps of a wicked witch. And still, I wish I could 
follow 

Follow and find it though the pinks and the tall 

sunflowers 
Were scentless, all of glass, the curling smoke from 

the chimney 
Would never rise with the wind, nor the stiff white 

curtains flutter, 
Nor the witch-godmother leave her place beside the 

window. 

In a world of painted glass there could be no 

deceiving, 
Shadows of present or past or tricksome lights of 

the future, 
Guileful curves to mislead, or hard, sharp angles to 

hurt me — 
All should be bright and smooth and thin as the 

dreams of childhood. 



C^o] 



VIA DELLA MADONETTA 

The dearest street in Venice lies 
Not to be found by careless eyes, 
A ribbon of the seaweed's green 
It turns and twists the walls between 
So narrow that one's elbow may 
The tinted plaster rub away, 
And if the swarthy gondolier 
Another plashing oar should hear 
He cries a warning, wailful, sweet, 
Lest the opposing prows should meet. 
See, there's a house all rosy white 
Around whose foot the tangled light 
And shadow whirling silently 
Are delicate as when we see 
The princess of a fairy dream 
Dipping her soft limbs in the stream: 
But yonder house of fawn and gold 
Is some proud courtesan of old, 
Tullia of Aragon arrayed 
In gown of amber-hued brocade, 
Nor doth she fear her shoon to wet 
With diamonds and topaz set, 
A princely lover's gift, nor wear 
The yellow veil to hide her hair. 
And here's a house whose vivid blue 
Shades to a luscious violet hue, 
And this I like the best of all, 
For in a niche against the wall 
The Madonetta's self doth stand, 
And scarcely taller than my hand, 
Of plaster shapen clumsily 



And crudely painted it may be, 

But still, I love her oval face, 

Her smooth dark hair, the plaintive grace 

Of drooping head and arm too frail 

To hold that heavy baby. Pale 

The cheek that once was painted pink, 

Faded the crimson mouth. I think 

So wistful sweet she is and small 

That I would dare to whisper all 

My littlest sins to her, for she 

Would never frown and frighten me. 

She is not proud and stiff and great 

Like the Madonna was who sate 

Above the altar looking down 

In cloth of gold and jewelled crown. 

I think of her each windy night, 

How by the smoking candles' light 

She watches with her patient eyes 

Such mimic storms as may arise 

Within the wee canal. Each day 

Do I salute her on my way 

Along the via, and I bring 

For her some dainty offering 

Two yellow marigolds as bright 

As are the gilded roses dight 

Upon her shoes, or sweeter yet, 

A tiny sprig of mignonette. 



C"] 



SEASHORE MEMORIES 

I shall return no more 

Until I have grown old — then I can see 

Without this sudden, clutching pain 

At heart and throat 

The long white curve of beach outlined 

Against twin depths of blue, 

So soft, so perfect like the creamy leaf 

Of a gigantic rose. 

The sea that trembles virgin like 

With the impatient kisses of the sun, 

Now wistful, tremulous 

Behind her silver-spangled veil, 

Then swooning in a vivid ecstasy 

Of purest sapphire light. 

The distant sails 

That slowly moving, seem to mock 

The grey-winged gulls who dart 

Hither and yon, so aimless and so swift. 

The long, dark wall where leaps the spray, 

And farther off, 

The clustered cottage-roofs of autumn hues, 

Orange and red and brown. 

Even the smallest things, the waxy green, 

Low-growing weeds that mark 

The threadlike course 

Where a brave streamlet strove to reach the sea, 

The fleet sand-spirals rising light 

As the pale yellow smoke 

From fairy signal fires — all make too keen 

The throbbing memories of days 

Not to be lived again. 



Oh, my first lover with the sea-blue eyes, 

Would I not give the rest 

Of youth and all the shrivelled years 

Of eld to see — 

Only to see once more 

The sunlight on that golden head of thine? 

URSULE'S MISSAL 

Ursule a dainty missal hath; 

Its pages smooth and bland 
Are white as lily-petals 

Or as our Lady's hand. 

But Ursule while she scans it peers 

Aside and tries to see 
If Colin's kneeling near the aisle 

Where he was wont to be. 

The letters scarlet, golden, blue 
Most quaintly shapen are, 

And in the margin of each leaf 
Are painted clear and fair 

Saint Michael in his gilded mail, 
Saint John in tunic green, 

Saint Helen robed in miniver, 
And rose-crowned Magdalene. 

But Ursule while she studies them 
Knows that her Colin wears 

A fine new cloak of velvet blue 
As fruit the plum-tree bears. 

Around the little pictures runs 
A charming fantasy 

[243 



Of flower, leaf and budding vine — 
Oh, marvellous to see 

How finely wrought the hawthorn leaves, 

And ivy; finer yet 
The silver-berried mistletoe, 

Clove-pink and violet. 

But Ursule thinks of how her lad 
And she one blithe spring day 

Through field and meadow singing went 
To gather in the May. 

Of how they never reached her home 

Till dews began to fall, 
And how they found the year's first rose 

Beside the garden wall. 

The missal hath a golden clasp 

Set with a comely stone, 
But Ursule while she fingers it 

Hopes that when Mass is done 

Colin will wait beside the door 
To greet her — pretty fool — 

Perchance will try to kiss her hand — 
Oh, shame on thee, Ursule. 



FAIRY SONG 

Like a giant dandelion 

Shines the sun, so brave and bold 
With his thousand narrow rays 

Yellower than elfin gold. 

[253 



Then, against the darkling sky 

Hangs the old moon large and frail 

As the dandelion spheres 
Flutter in a summer gale. 

Comes a lusty, romping wind 

Merry as a boy at play, 
Blows — and lo, on every side 

Faint star-clusters float away. 

OF HER 

The grace of her — 
Lily wind swayed. 
The touch of her — 
Rose in the dusk. 
The thought of her — 
Sun after rain. 
The heart of her — 
The unchanging star. 

AQUA-MARINES 

How by your chill transparency 

And timid color hints do ye 

Mock the earth-mother — for your name 

Was taken from the fostering sea 

Nor find I likeness to the flame 

That shaped you once. Unvarying round 

And tremulous cerulean ray 

Like milky bubbles of the spray 

That mid the crisp beach-weed are found. 

— Know ye the pools among the rocks 

Where gold-moss hangs like sirens' locks? 



— Know ye the sea-fays' palace hall 
Where the low sunlight lies between 
Fantastic columns of the green 
Rough chrysoprase, and where the small 
Barnacles build a mimic tower 
Beside a little lake where float 
Quaint likenesses of pleasure-boat 
And idling swans? Doth the rock-flower 
Display your blue and green and white 
While shrinking from the icy shower 
A wave flings o'er the boulders' height? 
I must believe if it be sooth 
That pearls the full moon's children are, 
The spirit of some vanished star 
Lost long ago in the world's youth 
Down the dark abyss of the years 
Now dwells within your shallow spheres. 

AZALEAS 

You take the trim lawn's centre, 

So confident each one, 
And spread with sleek complacency 

Your satins in the sun. 

Your amethysts and crimsons 

To palest coral shade 
While fawn and vivid orange 

To cream or amber fade. 

But though you look so haughty 

And never try to speak, 
Alack, a tiny freckle 

That spots each glossy cheek 



Betrays you as the dusk is 
Betrayed by one wee star — 

And you are of more hardy growth 
Than lady-flowers are. 

I know you, brilliant wantons 

That from the forest came 
To flaunt it in our gardens 

And put the rose to shame. 

SUNSET NEAR AN OLD CHATEAU 

Close-leaved quince and apple-tree 
Cluster in the long-dry moat 
While a milky sky above 
Curves and shimmers daintily 
As the white wood-pigeon's throat; 
Strikes the west a bolder note, 
Golden rose of Dijon's love, 
Poppy-gold or apricote. 

From the lindens torchlike burning 
Heart-shaped flakes of gold afloat 
Down the breeze are drifting, turning. 
— Heart of gold, oh, heart of gold — 
Where to find you? For, behold, 
Underneath the branches low 
Fairy realms unchanged, remote, 
Green as chrysoberyl glow. 
Green of hazel, green of brake, 
Green of changeling poplars souled 
By the argent sprites of lake 
Or of ocean. Heart of gold, 
I shall never find you there 



In the fern-choked paths, or where 
Lies the little white chateau 
Just beyond the forest brink 
Like a shell to mark the flow 
Of the upper tides and show 
Faint, quick pulses of the sea 
Throbbing mauve and golden pink 
Through its veinless purity. 

See the great sunflowers stooping 
By the sheer moat edge and drooping 
Each the massive chevelure 
Of her tawny yellow hair, 
Lithe and proud and fiercely fair, 
Nymph or dryad — who could say 
Which hath stranger, wilder lure 
On this verge of night and day? 

Now, a flight of swallows whirls 
Past the grey-walled chapel; swirls 
Swift as eddied soot-flakes through 
That low arch whose stones are wound 
With clematis heat-embrowned. 
Gold heart of the twilight, you 
Are too nearly spent, and I 
Grieve to see against the blue 
Of the darkling middle sky 
Moon of gossamer that shows 
Neither crescent nor full round, 
Kingcup nay, nor golden rose — 
But as mid the thickly growing 
Purple harebells breezeward blowing 
One of phantom white is found. 



THE VINAIGRETTE 

When I was a child 

I sometimes used to steal 

Within the parlor, tiptoe light across 

The darkly shining floor 

To where behind the wide brocaded couch 

Stood a small cabinet. 

I loved to rub my finger on the smooth 

Cold glass of the doors, and peer 

At all the pretty things upon the shelves. 

Three balls of solid crystal grasped 
Between the curving claws 
Of an ivory dragon, held the light 
Unchanging, purple, green and rose. 

Then, on its teakwood stand 

A bowl of Japanese 

Enamel of most dainty blue. Beneath 

A foaming cascade overhung 

By trailing willows golden fishes leapt — 

Their burnished scales 

Gleamed like the smoky orange flame 

In a fire-opal's heart. 

On either side 

Of such a wee chess-board inlaid 

With ebony and pearl, 

Two cupids knelt in fierce dispute; 

Each carved from alabaster. This I thought 

Most beautiful of all. 

I must speak very low — 

There lay within its narrow case 

Do] 



A jewelled vinaigrette. 

It looked so small and quaint and stiff, 

With its little golden head 

It made me think of a dead child 

Lying straight and still 

Within a coffin satin-lined. 

Fve heard that it belonged 

To a great-great-aunt of mine, 

Once famous for her beauty, but she died 

Young of a broken heart — 

Because she might not wed the man she loved. 

— One day, I even dared 

To turn the golden key and thrust 

A bold, impious hand 

Within the cabinet and take 

The vinaigrette from out its case. 

I pulled the tiny stopper — lo, 

Such a faint, keen perfume 

Greeted my nostrils. 'Twas as sweet 

As when the brier-roses lift 

Their shallow chalices 

Of silver, of pale coral to the rain. 

Just a torn, trembling film of fragrance blown 

On soft winds of the past. 

Tell me — you, who believe in ghosts, 

Was not this a strange sort of a ghost, 

A sweet little ghost indeed? 



do 



A FIND 

FOR DOROTHEA 

To-day I found a dainty bag 

Beside my garden-bed 
Of yellow cowslip petals sewn 

With finest spider-thread. 

I opened it, and there within — 

Of this say not a word — 
A fan of smallest size and made 

Of plumes of humming-bird. 

Claspt with a twinkling diamond 

A smelling-bottle too 
Carved from a single peridot 

To hold one drop of dew. 

A handkerchief of cobweb lace 
• And in one corner set 
The letter "T" in golden thread, 
Above, a coronet. 

And think you not that she who lost 
Such treasures must have been 

Someone of highest rank — perhaps, 
Titania the queen? 



THE MOON-DIAL 

A Moon-Dial I've fashioned 

Within a grot I know 
Where lilies-of-the-valley 

And frail-stemmed snowdrops grow. 

[32] 



'Twas carven by enchantment 

From white chalcedony 
Upon a silver pillar 

And, wrought most cunningly 

Around its rim the symbols 

Of Night's twelve hours are set- 

The first an evening primrose, 
The next a violet. 

The third, a drowsy marigold, 
The fourth a heartsease dear, 

A heliotrope, a guelder rose 
And jasmine next appear. 

The Sleep-God's waxen poppy, 

And ghostly asphodel, 
A creamy-leaved magnolia, 

A delicate harebell. 

— While for that wistful hour 
That by the dawn is kissed 

A morning-glory opens 
Her eye of amethyst. 

And thus, my fair Moon-Dial 

Till rising of the sun 
Points with a phantom finger 

The hours every one. 

But she for whom I wrought it 

Alas, will never stray 
Beyond her virgin bower 

From dawn till break of day. 

[33] 



ADORATION 

The wave loves the Iris-Flower 
He winds his suppliant, tender 
Arms round her moveless feet. 

But she like a queen in armor 
Stands slim and ardent and fragile 
And lifts her face to the Sun. 



JEANNE AND A CITY GARDEN 

Often I thought of Jeanne the Maiden 
While I played in our garden all alone 

Where a thousand-flowered honeysuckle 
Climbed an old barn wall of creamy stone. 

Jeanne in the oak-wood of Domremy, 
Jeanne in her father's orchard-close 

Hearing the sweet, unearthly Voices — 
Oh, far and very far from those 

Seemed the little girl with tangled elf-locks 
In her knee-short frock of navy blue 

Who read and dreamed of the Hero-Virgin 
While the warm June days dragged slowly 
through. 

But I thought the eyes that Jeanne had visioned 
'Mid the dim oak-boughs of Domremy 

Were looking down star-clear and tender 
Through the dark leaves of our tulip-tree. 

D4] 



And I heard faint voices through the clamor 
That over the neighbors' gardens came 

Past the high brick wall where yellow roses 
Clambered and crept like a tawny flame. 

And the tall dove-cote so oddly gabled 

Where a plump dove preened his moony breast 

Was a Gothic spire of grey and silver 
Clear outlined on the rosy west. 

And the flowers by the warm bricks growing 

Red, golden, violet — at a glance 
Were splendid knights and ladies riding 

To the crowning of the King of France. 

Still, when I read of green Domremy 

I can see that narrow garden plot 
Where I grew heartsease and ragged-sailors 

In a border of forget-me-not. 

Of its pebbled path and straggling laurels 
I think when I hear of Blessed Jeanne — 

Of its climbing, tawny yellow roses 

That smelled like honey and cinnamon. 



ANGEL-FISH 

Looking down over the edge of the rocks 
The dark green, moveless water 
Seemed solid as jade itself, 
As the lucent jade of Ceylon. 

A flicker — a palpitant curve of light, 

Elusive, vivid, serene 

As the wave of the mer-queen's crystal fan. 

[35] • 



Slow-gliding, luminous shapes, 

Spent meteors moving large and dim 

Past the thin gold disk of the sun-fish, past 

The rosy ocean-stars that lie 

Deep down on the cool, dim moss. 

Were an opal cloven through the heart 
Would it show such colors as these — 
Sheer, limpid green of the peridot, 
The blue of the moonstone's heart, 
Rose-purple of almandines. 

They are moonlight patterned through 
The jewelled oriels 
Of the mer-king's palace beneath 
Its low-arched, murmurous domes 

They are bubbles, pulsing, rounded, sleek 
The foam-sprite blows on a silvern pipe 
That would burst with a mortal's breath. 

Now they are gone, they have floated down, 
And the moveless, dark green water 
Seems solid and still as jade. 



THE CHINE 

Within the chine where we are summoned now 

By water tinkling airily and low 

We find no flower, orchis fleshy pale, 

Nor arbutus, nor hyacinths that frail 

Blossom the bare snow-haunted woods amid — 

The smallest veinings of a maiden's lid 

Are no more sweet of tint — but moss, yes moss, 

C36] 



That creeps and pringles like strong silver floss, 

Or lies in folds of ashen velvet cool, 

Or crowds the sloping margin of the pool 

With little eager stars, or poises still 

Its waxen spheres on stems invisible. 

And ferns — we get a sudden joy of green 

Poignant and pure as ever olivine 

Or carven chrysolite could show. One spreads 

In fairy benison above our heads 

From an unthought of cleft and lightly curls 

Its topmost strands to catch the water-pearls 

That patter from above. And hoary plumes 

Of fern we see no greener than the spumes 

The moon-wan water washes over rocks 

So lichen-fretted that they seem like blocks 

Of aged ivory each overwrought 

With script too fine for mortal eye or thought. 

The stream-bed's scarcely seen so thickly there 

The willow-witches shake their fading hair, 

And every birchling makes a plaintive stir 

As though a wind had clutched the locks of her. 

Till we shut in by all this gray and green 

Wonder indeed if we have ever seen 

Buttercups, roses, dahlias hundred-pied 

Or tiger-lilies — if our eyes beside 

Can ever from this dim enchantment break 

Or will they less love color for its sake? 

TWO LITTLE LADIES 

I know two dear little old-fashioned ladies — 
Sisters, I think — who live just round the corner 
In a small brick house with funny window boxes. 

[3711 



I see them coming home each day from market 

In their soft silken dresses and quaint bonnets; 

Their profiles are clear-cut and delicate, 

They walk with little toddling steps like doves. 

— And I would love to follow them within 

Their house and see it all; the tiny parlor 

Whose walls I know are panelled in brocade 

Of softest gold and blue, while all around 

The fireplace are set tiles whose azure patterns 

Tell a forgotten legend. On the mantel 

Beside the tall gilt clock are peacock feathers 

Standing up straight in a vase of yellow porcelain. 

Then I would cross the narrow hallway; peer 

Into the dining-room that looks upon 

A high-walled garden — but the windows of it 

Are almost dark with tangled honeysuckle; 

And in the glass-doored cupboard there'd be plates 

And cups of china painted by themselves 

A trifle smudged — the work of amateurs. 

I often wonder what they have for supper — 

Such cream-white custards might be baked in thimbles, 

And cookies with sliced citron and burnt almonds, 

Plump cherries floating in a golden syrup, 

And tea of course — perhaps, on great occasions 

They dare to sip a cordial sharply fragrant 

As the heliotrope that blossoms in their garden. 

— Then, I would climb the winding stairway; see 

Their sleeping-chamber with the prim white beds 

That smell of lavender, and every piece 

Of furniture is carved of ancient rosewood. 

Perhaps, on the grey-patterned walls are hanging 

The family silhouettes each trimly framed 

In black and gilt; perhaps, a mirror like 

C38] 



You see in antique shops with greenish, wrinkled 
Glass — and above it is a queer old painting 
In boldest colors of the Bay of Naples. 
I wonder if they sit up late at night 
Reading — between them in its silver holder 
Burns a tall candle, and they nibble cakes, 
And sip each from a tiny gilded tumbler 
Of orange-flower water. Once I read 
In an old book of a tall gilded bottle 
Of orange-flower water — and the cool 
Sweet sound of it possessed me then and ever 
— Yes, I would love to follow the dear ladies 
And see their home — but I will never try it 
For fear things might not be just as I've dreamt 
them. 

MYSTERY 

Thus runs the legend. Once a king 
Had led a desert chase in hope 
Of prey — gazelle or antelope, 

Leopard or lion, doth not sing 

The perished bard who tells the thing — 
But that at noon the hunt was stayed 
Where in the ragged palm-trees' shade 

Babbled and purled a cooling spring. 

A bowshot off but full in view 
The ruins of a city showed 
Above the drifted sand and glowed 

In that fierce sun with every hue 

Of violet and vermeil and blue, 
Of carbuncle and cornelian 
And eastern lapis. And they knew 

A tale which made it the abode 

[39] 



Of monstrous beings whose sight would blast 
One who beheld them. But the king 
So dearly loved adventuring 

That with his following he passed 

The gates. Though obscene rubbish massed 
Its streets, he never recked the fall 
Of sagging roof or crumbling wall, 

And so unhurt, he gained at last 

The palace in its center set. 

Now, all around like molten glass 

The flat sand glared save where parched grass 
Or bristling cactus showed, and yet 
'Twas plain in years the stars forget 

This palace stood beside the sea; 

Its walls were painted wondrously 
With shapes that underwave are met. 

Here lay a toppled column slim 

Of sea-green onyx and around 

Its shallow capital they found 
Lithe, springing dolphins carved. A dim 
Fresco showed wild white swans aswim, 

While over them an arching flight 

Of long-winged fish gleamed ghostly bright 
As splintered jewels along the rim 

Of the low cornice. Still, the king 
Pressed ever onward till he came 
To a small chamber where a name 

That none could read was glittering 

[40] 



Above the portal. Backward swing 
The heavy doors, and then they see 
Stretched on a couch of ivory 

In the room's midst a lovely thing — 

A woman young and strangely fair; 
A robe of rosy tissue fine 
As water thinly mixed with wine 

Scarce veiled her perfect body bare 

Beneath their eyes. Her golden hair 
Unto her feet went rippling down 
Below a richly jewelled crown. 

Her breast moved not, but rested there 



A flower wrought of gems and this 
Was shapen like to those that be 
In hollow caves beneath the sea, 

Of beauty weird and all amiss — 

And when the king had lifted this 

Her long stilled blood began to flow, 
The breath fought in her throat, and lo, 

Her red lips opened to his kiss. 

So then, in triumph did he take 

Her to his home. But when she strove 
To answer his soft words of love 

Sweet proffer of herself to make, 

In voice hoarse from disuse she spake 
Words of a language strange, uncouth 
Such as was heard in the world's youth. 

Then did the wise men for her sake 

on 



Plead with the king to have her taught 
The common speech that she might tell 
Of that old world where she did dwell 

Long centuries agone. What thought 

Her vanished race; what wars they fought; 
What gods they worshipped; what their lore 
Of earth and heaven, and much more 

Of learning that these scholars sought. 

But still the king denied. "Who knows 
Loses the bliss of Dream," quoth he, 
"Nor would I cleave the mystery 

Fragile and flawless that doth close 

My precious one, and strangely shows 
Her beauty red and white and gold 
As thinnest sheath of ice might hold 

The untouched beauty of a rose." 

IN MY LOVE'S GARDEN 

In my love's garden 
None but white flowers, 
Marguerites, lilies, 
Satin-leaved pansies, 
Hyacinths snow-belled, 
Hauntingly fragrant, 
Yea, and the starlike, 
Fragile narcissi. 
Flowers of silver, 
Flowers of sea foam, 
Made of the moon-dusk, 
Coolness and silence. 
— But oh for roses 

[42H 



Deep-hued, delicious, 
Flame-spirits troublous, 
Poignant and tender, 
Oh for the gorgeous 
Red-golden poppies, 
Passion-compelling, 
Regal, barbaric, 
Oh for the splendid 
Throbbing carnations 
Breathing the spicy- 
Heat of the southland, 
Drowning in color 
Moth-stir or wing-flash 
Of the bold sunbird, 
Stifling with perfume 
Bee-whir or vivid 
Butterfly wooing. 
— I yearn for color, 
Warmth, fiery fragrance — 
In my love's garden 
None but white flowers. 

THE SWALLOW VASES 

I remember those vases. Never 

Have I seen another two — 
They were up in the big north bedroom 

And were colored a lovely blue 

They stood at each end of the mantel 
On their solid gilt balls of feet, 

They were patterned with darting swallows 
Plump-breasted and lithe and sweet. 

£43 3 



And a Delft clock stood between them 
It ticked and would never stop 

It was painted with stiff Dutch landscapes 
And a sailing ship on top. 

And the bed was an old four-poster 
And the sheets were always cold 

And once the hot water bottle 

Leaked right through the blanket's fold. 

And the dark green paint of the shutters 
Would blister whene'er it rained, 

And I poked the bumps with my fingers 
Till all of my nails were stained. 

And on winter nights down the chimney 
Would patter the wet grey snow, 

And the trolleys groaned and clattered 
As they toiled through the street below. 

Now, I think in my dying hour 

I shall see those vases two 
With their circling, darting swallows 

On a sky of palest blue 

And the squat Delft clock between them 
That ticked and would never stop 

All painted with queer Dutch landscapes 
And a sailing ship atop. 

OLD ENGLISH 

Talk of love to Kate and lo, 
How the startled blood doth glow 
Over brow and bosom 

C44H 



As when frolic winds at play 
Shake the folded buds of May 
Into sudden blossom. 

Soft words to Clorinda speak 
Lightly o'er her polished cheek 

Such faint colors hover 
As a pearly shell may wear 
When to it the mermaid fair 

Whispers of her lover. 

But doth Helen blush, her face 
Such enchanting hues do grace 

He who sees supposes 
'Neath her eyes two cherubs sit, 
Each in mad and merry fit 

T'other pelts with roses. 

HER LADYSHIP'S FAN 

A sheath flower-slender 
Of nacre and gold — 

But dared I unfurl it 
What might I behold? 

A miniature garden 

Where under green trees 

Are pacing sedately 
Duchesse and marquise 

Displaying with studied 
And languorous grace 

Their moon-tinted satins 
And shimmering lace? 

C45] 



Or maybe, a laughing, 

Adorable girl 
Unveiling her shoulders' 

Peach-blossom and pearl 

To the kiss of a cupid 

Who hovers near by 
His azure-tipped winglets 

Scarce fitted to fly? 

A gondola gliding 

Behind a white swan 
Who harnessed with rosebuds 

Moves tranquilly on 

Reclining within it 

A lady most fair 
And seated beside her 

A youth debonair. 

A zither he touches 

While both seem to sing — 
Oh, her ladyship's fan 

Is an exquisite thing ! 

I'll summon up courage 

Sufficient for this — 
Each tiny gilt spangle 

I'll lovingly kiss 

Each whimsical spiral 

And fairy volute, 
Its filmy lace roses 

And strange colored fruit. 

[463 



So when she unfurls it — 

Must needs be anear 
Her cheek, her red lips, or 

That maddening ear — 

My kisses undreamed of 
Will hover and cling — 

Oh, her ladyship's fan's an 
Adorable thing! 

AN ANTIQUE EARRING 

Look, here is an ancient earring 

In shape like a golden basket 

Crowded with poppies ; the blossoms carved 

From scarlet and white cornelians 

The leaves are of emerald. 

'Twas worn by a Greek hetaira 

In Athens — her cheeks were painted 

With white and scarlet, her golden hair 

Twined in a hundred ringlets 

Each stiffened with burnished wire. 

Her eyes were as green as smaragd — 
They glittered and darkened with envy 
At talk of the great Aspasia 
Who was mistress to Pericles. 

CORALS 

What were the lace of Venice or Alengon 
To this of beaded pink and scarlet spun 
By all the mer-queen's winsome maids of honor 
With fleet white fingers flashing in the sun? 



HAUVIETTE'S PRAYER 

Brown Hauviette am I the elders call 
Of tongue too keen, of hazel eyes too soft, 

And I have left the dance to kneel alone 
In this grey chapel where she came so oft. 

My Jeanne. And dare I pray for her whose life 
In deeds of sweetest piety was spent — 

And yet she loved me so she could not bear 
To say farewell to me before she went. 

Black Robin caught me near the chapel door 
And kissed me ere I wrenched myself away. 

I was so angry with him when he laughed 
Because I bade him leave me here to pray. 

Saint Catherine with that great fiery wheel, 
Saint Margaret who gazing calm above 

Tramples that monstrous dragon under foot — 
Terrible saints, more meet for fear than love. 

Mild Agnes with her lamb clasped to her breast 
Were fitter patron for a pleader who 

Is but an humble, timid shepherd lass — 

Yet, since she loved you most I come to you, 

With such small gifts as I who am not rich 
Even among our peasant folk may bring 

Jeanne always brought you flowers. I have searched 
Forest and meadow for my offering. 

Wood-lilies, faintly scented violets, 

The blossoms of the wild strawberry vine, 

And honeysuckles tinged with pink as though 
They held the last lees of the fairies' wine. 

C48] 



I ask not for such mighty favor showed 

To me as once to her that ye appear 
Before me in angelic splendor clad — 

Indeed, I think I should go mad for fear. 

But guard her, keep her from all scathe and ill 
On that strange path she treads, and when all's 
o'er 

Let her return, the same dear, simple soul 
Tender and kindly as she was of yore. 

A PROVINCETOWN SUMMER 

FOR M. A. R. 

One summer I spent on old Cape Cod 

In a town where the "Portygees" 
Were at strife with the lean New England folk 

For the spoil of the cold North seas. 

I rented a room in a big white house — 

How the artists loved to paint 
The sulphur roses and hollyhocks 

That grew in its garden quaint. 

I would wake at dawn in the high white bed 

And gaze up the narrow street 
To the wee churchyard where the tall headstones 

Stood orderly, grave and sweet 

Though so few were straight and the most part 
leaned 

To each other in friendly way 
Like the sober greeting of Quaker dames 

In their russet and gentle grey. 

[493 



And all through the leaves of chestnut and elm 
The sun made a cool green glow 

As it shone through smaragd tinted water 
Round the weedy piers below. 

And then I'd dress and go hurrying down 

To the rickety barn that we 
Called "our studio." I was often late, 

But the coffee kept hot for me. 

We were always sketching a red-roofed pier 
Where the seagulls whirled all day, 

Or a boat that turned on its helpless side 
Like an empty mussel lay. 

Or a rusty can that the shrinking tide 

Left glittering in our view 
With such tints of copper, garnet and rose 

That Titian would love it too. 

— One day I went to the upland moor 

And a thunder-shower came; 
But I braved the wet for I yearned to paint 

How the fireweed's rippling flame 

Went scorching through heather dust-brown and 
dead 

Till it quenched at last might be 
In a small round pool that stared at the sky 

Dead-blue as chalcedony. 

Well, the pictures we toiled so hard to make — 

They were crude affairs enough 
With the paint laid on in "daring" strokes, 

All ragged and thick and rough. 



— But oh, for the fearless eyes of my youth 

That were never afraid to see, 
And oh, for the glamour of summer days 

In an artists' colony. 

MY LADY'S VINAIGRETTE 

My lady's heart is set 

On a jewelled vinaigrette, 

It must be shaped with fantastic grace 

Like to some flow'ret's fragile vase 

With its curious curve and fret. 

And prisoned fast in the tiny space 

A perfume more precious yet. 

What jewels shall be set 
In my lady's vinaigrette? 
Chrysoprase green as a seamaid's eyes, 
Aqua-marine like the April skies 
Moon-flooded — or rarer yet, 
Amethyst hued like the drop that lies 
In the heart of a violet? 

What essence more dainty yet 

For my lady's vinaigrette 

Than the faint perfume of the brier rose 

Or the poignant sweet of the apple-blows 

By a Maytime shower wet, 

Or the scent that soft as a hushed prayer goes 

From the drowsy mignonette? 

Then, Dear here's your vinaigrette 

Of crystal more fragile yet 

Than the promise you gave, and all agleam 

With gems as bright as the rosy dream 

DO 



I cherished when first we met — 

It's sweet as the kiss you would not redeem, 

As the hours I can't forget. 



THE NEREID 

Topaz, ivory the sands, 

Sapphire, chrysoprase the sea, 

Turquoise all unflawed the sky, 
Witchery, aye, witchery. 

As I walked the beach alone, 

Can it be I really spied 
Lying there a Nereid 

Whom the slow retreating tide 

Left beyond the farthest verge 
Of the grey cliff-shadow cool, 

With her tresses loosely spread 
Shining like an amber pool, 

With her pale face strangely fair 
Where the faint blood rarely came 

As within the opal's heart 
Flickers the inconstant flame? 

When I looked again I saw 
Naught but in a narrow ring 

Glinting bubbles of the foam — 
Was the weird and lovely thing 

Throbbing with a life unknown, 
Soulless offspring of the sea, 

Sucked up by the hot sun's rays? 
Glamourie, aye, glamourie. 



A MEDIAEVAL SYMPHONY 

Could I write a symphony 
I would soon re-tell the old 
Tale so quaintly and so well 
By the wandering jongleur told. 
Violins should weave the spell 
Of a blue and silver night. 
Then, the cymbals clashing light 
Seem the faintly tinkling mail 
Of the youthful prince who wide 
Through the forest seeks his bride, 
His "sweete friende" without avail. 
Hark, the horn winds plaintive, thin, 
Quick he comes — bold Aucassin. 

Harps and viols thrillingly 

Upward weave and intertwine 

Like the rich wall-tracery 

Of that "bowere in the woodes," 

Leafy bough and branching vine 

Starred with rosy purple buds. 

Now, flute-tremors wildly sweet 

Seem those naked, tripping feet 

By whose whiteness dark with shame 

Showed the moon-drenched daisies all. 

Hear the wistful oboe call 

Low and clear the well loved name. 

Over grass all dewy wet 

Swift she comes — lithe Nicolette. 



[S3] 



A "NEF" JEWEL 

Tell me, little golden ship, 

Upon what fantastic trip 

Have you sailed o'er seas unknown? 

Slender shallop of the moon 

Might be wrecked by such fierce gales 

As you've met with those wee sails 

Each of purply tinted shell 

And your hull built strong and well 

Gold and coral, lapis blue, 

Anchor one huge pearl that's too 

Heavy for a maid to wear 

As a pendant at her ear. 

In what tiny harbor far 

On the coast line of a star 

By what city small and bright 

With its wall of chrysolite 

And its spires all jewel wrought 

Have you lain — what cargo brought 

From your strange adventurings — 

All the wealth of elfin kings, 

Or such gold as long ago 

Fair-haired Jason sought. And oh, 

Pretty pirate, did you dare 

Battle with the fleets of air, 

Spoil them of their freight, and then 

Tempt the vast cloud seas again, 

Going boldly, all sails set? 

Some strange perfume haunts you yet, 

Sweet as though you had for pelf 

The Rose-Peri's lovely self — 

[54] 



Scarcely sweeter did you rest 
On Dame Venus' foam-pale breast 
And ofttimes her winged son 
Leant his golden head thereon. 



Zssl 



SONNETS 



4* 



OLD JEWELRY 

A NARROW band of velvet worn and frayed, 
Its two ends prisoned by a buckle set 
With yellowed seed-pearls, tiny cones of jet; 

A cluster of pink coral surely made 

To grace a dainty ear, though I'm afraid 

The dangling pendant's lost. More precious yet 
This massive golden brooch, its careful fret 

With mellow-tinted cairngorms all inlaid. 

What of the supple wrist the ribbon bound, 
Perhaps a lover's gift? The rosy ear 

That heard his plea? What of the "breste of 



snowe" 



That throbbed beneath the brooch's shining round 
The day she walked out bride? Alas, I fear 
Dust of the churchyard long and long ago. 

AVIGNON 

Sleepy Avignon — it was near the hour 

Of nones we crossed the long white bridge that lay 
A lily-garland over the green-grey, 

Wide-circling river; saw Sire Philip's tower 

A lily-stalk denuded of its flower, 

Against the dove-hued sky it seemed to sway 
And quiver in the pale heat of that day 

When all the spirits of the south had power. 

We found the convent. By its garden wall 

Ripe pears lay on the grass, while clear and bold 
From the pear-tree we heard a mavis sing. 

A Sister showed us — that was best of all — 
King Rene's altar-painting, black and gold 
As the queen-tulips of their southern spring. 

C59] 



HOLLYHOCKS 

These satin-skirted hollyhocks that lean 

Across the picket fence their weight of bloom 
Remind me somehow of the pleasant gloom 
Of an old parlor. Shades of cool leaf-green 
In rugs perhaps and curtains, with between 
The richer petal-tones of cardinal 
And ivory and citron. Rise and fall 
Of the hearth-flame as in a mirror seen 
On rosewood and gold-lacquer. But the slim 
Bayberry candles in their sconces wrought 
Of gilded silver scorn to shrink or flare 
With every humor of the passing draught, 

And there are hints of warm, spiced wine and 
rare 
Dainties in porcelain bowls heaped to the brim. 

But when I try to picture the wide sweep 

Of silken skirts on which the firelight glows 
In colors tender as a fading rose 
To image how the wavering shadows creep 
Along a rounded arm and sudden leap 
Over lace-hidden bosom and bare throat 
Dimming the ruby breastpin's vivid note 
To lose themselves among the fragrant deep 
Of close-massed curls — or when I think to see 
Glint of a gemmed shoe-buckle as she walks 

With such an indolent and swaying grace — 
Then, leaning forward on their glossy stalks 
These flowers seem to gaze into my face 
With such a grave and gentle mockery. 



[6o] 



ANTINOUS 

As forth he came into the frail starlight 

Which through huge bulks of tamarisk and palm 
But faintly glossed the unmoving ebon calm 

Of waters nearest shore, the lotus white 

Seemed girlish hands outflung in soft affright 
To clutch and hold him back. But well he knew 
His heart and ever steered the slight canoe 

On through the glamourous, moon-haunted night. 

On toward the cataracts' unceasing roar 
Past ruined palaces and gardens dim 

He flashed by startled watchers on the shore 
Like an embodied moon-ray white and slim — 

A flash, a plunge, a moan — and nothing more 
'Twixt sky and foam-streaked water seen of him. 

RAIN IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN 

From shaken boughs of myrtle and of box 

Drop topaz, jacinth, peridot enough 
To pay an elf-king's ransom. Hollyhocks 

Each in deep-flouncing silks with pleated ruff 
Bend in the courtly fashion of old beaux 

And toss their diamonds of blinding sheen 
In the gold-lily's lap. The damask rose 

Droops jewel-fettered like a captive queen. 
Faint promise of the sun seems everywhere, 

Delicate rainbows flash — and perched aloft 
The quivering phlox that butterfly again 
To spread his drenched and tattered wings would 
dare — 

When, eerie-wild and mischievous and soft, 
The rush and teasing laughter of the rain. 

Z6rt 



MARIE DE FRANCE 

Of you, brave poetess, we've nothing more 

Than name and songs, and yet, I'm sure of you — 
A lonely, gallant spirit who all through 

A wandering life in costly silence bore 

With music and with laughter broidered o'er. 
Her heart as that sad lady of the tale 
Wrapped the crushed body of her nightingale 

In silk close-stitched with gules and vert and or. 

And though you've left us many a dainty lay 
Fresh as the branch of honeysuckle tossed 

By faithful Tristram on the dusty way 
To warn Isolda he whom she loved most 

Was close at hand; in this our dusty day 

Your keen and fragrant spirit's needed most. 

AN OLD CAMEO 

Within an oval of unshaded blue 
The figure of a dancing nymph is seen 
Moving with measured step and air serene 

In some enthralling dance that wood-folk knew 

In days when skies were of a softer hue 
And forests wore a deeper, richer green 
Than now. And nevermore such shape and mien 

Beneath the sun shall happy mortals view. 

Of less unearthly grace the forms appear 

The keen frost carves from crystal. We may bless 
The wind of time that froze this airy sprite 

To immobility and kept her here 

With all her fragile, glancing loveliness 
In these uncomely years for our delight. 

C62H 



OCTOBER EVENING 

From here I cannot see the ocean though 

I hear its muffled beating far away. 

The small roof-silhouettes of ashen grey 
Lie flat upon the failing sunset glow, 
As clearly etched, as delicately bold 

As filmy cinder-shapes before the fire. 

The dead leaves rising in a constant spire 
Are utter black upon the sky's blurred gold. 
Somewhere an owlet whoops. And now I see 

Down where the roadway's sweeping curve grows 
less 
A candle with its goblin eye of mirth 
From a low window winking eerily. 

There's nothing else except the loneliness 
Of a great wind between the sky and earth. 

SAINT NEREID 

An ancient legend of the Church doth tell 
Of how a hermit living in the wood 
Baptized a Satyr that the monster should 

Receive a soul, thereby the twain did dwell 

A many years within their forest cell 

Till both were reverenced as saints. I would 
There were another story of such good 

And blessing that upon a mermaid fell. 

Saint Nereid — to wear a halo dim 

Of silver wavy-patterned, robes of pale 
Azure and violet and beryl-green, 

To wait, a handmaid, moony-haired and slim, 
In service of the one whom seamen hail 
As "Stella Maris," ocean's holy Queen. 

C633 



THE BEAD BAG 

Now, on the canvas doth she stitch with care 

Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed 
With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid, 

And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare 

As when in June the great poinsettias flare 
Against her garden wall. And some indeed, 
Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead 

Of light she sews in every minute square. 

Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind — 
Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer, 
Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil 
stream 

With lilies rimmed — but of my life designed 
On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear, 

Fills every moment with the jewels of dream. 



THREE SONNETS TO BEATRICE 



And didst thou never plan to hold his gaze 
With girlish tricks — a loosened braid let slip 
The netted coif — or wistful curve of lip — 

Or flower-glimpse of half averted face? 

Didst never wonder if the clinging grace 
Of silks became thee better than the stiff 
Brocades peacock or primrose colored? If 

Sheer lawn faint-patterned as the silver haze 

Above the meadow daisies hid too much 
That tender hollow of thy throat where lay 

1^4 3 



The rosary's nacred spheres like beaded cream 
On milk — and didst thou never feel a touch 
Of anger when his glances dared not stray 
To cheek or mouth he only kissed in dream? 

II 

And didst thou never rise from midnight sleep 
Ere thou wert wedded to Simone — steal 
Barefoot across the chamber floor, and feel 
Chill petals of the moonlight drifting deep 
Between thy breasts' warm curves? Didst never 
sweep 
The curtain folds aside to gaze into 
The stillness of the night whose limpid blue 
Even as a wall of sapphire did thee keep 
From him who still wrought at his lovely rhymes 
Of thee and of the happy maids who were 
Thy comrades, by the slowly failing lamp 
Less glowing than his heart — and were there times 
When they who wakened thee at dawn would fear 
Flushed, tear-stained cheeks and maiden pillow 
damp? 

in 

And didst thou never feel a secret fear 

Lest one of thy girl friends — as Vanna blithe 

So sumptuous of bosom and so lithe 
Of limb, with that broad glory of her hair 
And winsome face, the quick smile woven there 

With pout or frown — such luscious mingling 
shows 

The inner petalled sweetness of a rose — 
Might more loveworthy in his eyes appear 

[65] 



Than thy pure fragile beauty scarce of earth, 
The wide Madonna-brows, the locks' pale fall? 
— Thy poet knew a jewel; he decrees 
More than the diamond or opal's worth 
The pearl whose trembling iris-lights recall 
The wonder and the terror of the seas. 

A CHATEAU IN THE AISNE 

This was the prettiest thing we saw — the wee 

Chateau that nestled lilywise beside 

Its moat a boy might cross with one bold stride 
Two towers double-spired peeped warily 
Where frail wistaria smokelike wreathed and clung 

A garden hid behind a privet hedge 

But sweeter far along the lakelet's edge 
The mauve and golden iris thickly clung. 

A wood there was of holly, larch and pine 

That tapered daintily as mosses fine 
Against the softly fading afterglow 

Peachbloom and amethyst — all might have been 

Painted in powdered gems upon a screen 
Of satin with rosewater by Watteau. 

CALIFORNIA POPPIES 

You crinkled, burnished shells of thinnest gold, 
Within your curves might nestle safe from harm 
A Venus of the western seas whose form 
More rounded-lithe, more lovesome to behold 
Than hers of Cyprus, shapen not from cold 

White foam, glows sweetly with the changeful, 
warm 



Tints of rose-pearl and amber. Never storm 
To shatter her frail refuge would be bold. 
— Or else, an Indian sprite with tawny cheek, 

With locks of fine-spun copper, and with eyes 
Of melting topaz might a shelter seek 

From fierce pursuit of tiger-butterflies. 
Such urgent loveliness as yours must speak 

Of beauty greater still that hidden lies. 

PENTHESILEA 

Achilles knelt beside the dying girl 

Unclasped her helm and lower stooped to note 
The spent breath fluttering in her lissome throat 
More vainly than a moth's wings beat and whirl 
Within the hollow, faintly veined pearl 

Of the moon-orchid — her fast glazing eyes 
And orbed therein those huge, unclouded skies — 
One hand outflung with fingertips acurl 
Against the glowing sand. The victor wept 
To think upon the slow and awful change 
That soon must overtake that golden head 
Nor marked he how the lean Thersites crept 
Nearer and mocked him — only thought what 
strange 
Intolerable joy to love the dead. 

THE TUILERIES IN MARCH 

Around the fountain's rim the stone gods wear 
A milder aspect. Even Father Nile 
Has smoothed his rugged features to a smile 

The sturdy godlings clutching at his hair 

C673 



And brawny shoulder. See, how quickly there 
Across the steel-tinged water darts a boat 
By two bare-legged youngsters set afloat. 
Its pointed yellow sail in this light air 
Seems a belated autumn leaf. Behind, 
Yon granite nymph that races with the wind 
And never tires, has checked for once her stride. 
An unguessed softness in her eager face, 
She stoops to gather with a timid grace 
The white and golden pansies at her side. 

The folk who throng the paths are plainly dressed 
In sober colors, but the pigeons stalk 
So proudly up and down each sheltered walk 

And each displays on swelling throat and breast 

The season's latest shades for gown and vest 
Only the lindens — for sun-hours are brief, 
Reveal a glimmer of unfolding leaf — 

The other trees have spread against the west 

Their fan-shaped webs of black point-lace that veil 

With exquisite design a sky of pale 

Geranium and silver, daintily 

Brocaded. Yet, I watch where far away 
The obelisk from Egypt lifts its grey 

Lean finger pointed skyward warningly. 

THE "MORNING-GLORY" GEYSER 

Oh, monstrous flower huge and delicate 
As pure of color, exquisite of line 
As are the brittle stars of meadow-vine 
Or satin-sapphire gentians blooming late 
Among the meadow-grasses and the great 

C68] 



Soft, downy globes of wind-wooed dandelion 
Where fairy knights sit at their clover wine 
Until the afternoon's long heat abate. 
Do giant butterflies with wings rich-hued 
As sunset clouds, hang over thee in haste 
Thy thickly bubbling honey all to sip? 
Their great, vague beauty unguessed by our rude 
And blundering vision? Flower of the waste, 
What secret hovers on thy upcurled lip? 

THE MIRACLE 

Old Gregory of Tours relates with pride 
Of how within the royal chapel hung 
Above the tomb of one who died full young — 

Murdered, some thought — the grim king's gentle 
bride, 

A lamp swan-shapen of rock-crystal hard 

With eyes of sapphire. From the chains it fell — 
Nor was — oh, passing strange the miracle — 

The frail glass shattered, nor the marble marred. 

In my heart's chapel hangs above the tomb 
Of a slain love a lamp of tender ray; 

And may all pitying saints grant this to me — 

Unspilt its fragrant oil may warm the gloom, 
And may its fragile grace endure alway 
O'er the hard marble of Reality. 

VENETIAN VASES 

You float and poise with such fantastic grace 
Above the unseen tides of air as might 
A dolphin or sea-swallow or the white 

Swan-city of your birth. Against the rays 

[69H 



Of the waning lamp you shift from phase to phase 
Your rose-golds melting into silver blues 
And to all subtle, all bewildering hues, 

Crocus or apricot or chrysoprase. 

And now displaying in unbroken swirl 

Clear-edged, opaque, such polished bronze and 
pearl 

As the lagoon in stormy twilights shows. 

Now laced and globed and shot with tints that 

run 
Through the still water when the sinking sun 

Behind Saint George's of the Seaweed glows. 



THE FOREST OF COMPIEGNE 



Through the forest of old Compiegne we rode 
When all the ground was a shimmer of white, 

A glare, a dazzle, for it had snowed 

The whole of the long November night. 

Yet, the leaves were a flicker of palest gold 
On a sky of such faint and limpid blue 

As an aqua-marine unflawed might hold 
With a hint of the sea's green dullness too, 

— And I thought of Radegonde, Queen of Clotaire, 

With the gold of her pale Thuringian hair 

Bound smoothly over her forehead's snow, 
In silk and vair and in ermine clad, 
With her cold blue eyes of a saint that had 

No gleam of sorrow or wrath to show. 

Don 



II 

We rode through the forest of old Compiegne 
At Christmas tide when the bare boles stood 

Like jasper columns of richest grain; 
And all the leaves of the ancient wood 

Lay piled in sumptuous drifts between, 
Crimson and purple and deep wine-red 

Brocades and damasks of rarest sheen 
Fit to drape over a princeling's bed. 

— I thought how on many a sunlit morn 

With plume and banner and shrilling horn, 

When those noble trees were less gnarled and tall 
Gay cavalcades had wound past each spot, 
With Catherine, Francois and Mary the Scot 

To the winter feasting in Compiegne hall. 

in 

We rode through the forest of Compiegne old 

When the warm spring rains were seeping down 
Through misty leafage, and never a bold 

Violet peeped through the golden brown 
Deep clustering mosses; although the brink 

Of each clamoring stream and each hollow wet 
With forget-me-nots, turquoise and coral-pink 

Was in quaint and intricate pattern set. 
— And I thought of Joan the Blessed Maid, 
Riding on lissome and unafraid, 
Though she knew, saint-warned, of her coming 
fate — 

Riding on through a sun-flecked way 

To her capture in that fatal fray 
In the spring twilight near Compiegne gate. 

DO 



A PRINCESS OF EGYPT 

The sphinx-shaped crown now fallen to one side 
Reveals her stiffened locks of blue-black hair. 
Beneath her gilded mask the semblance fair 

Of girlhood to a leaf-brown husk hath dried. 

The scarab beads that row on row might hide 
Her slender throat, lie scattered here and there 
Turquoise and milky jade. Her breast doth bear 

The scarlet emblem of great Isis' pride. 

These jars of porphyry and agate tell 

How gracious and how fragrant was the youth 
Of what seems a frail horror to the sight — 

Of precious oils and essences they smell, 

Citron and myrrh — yea, she had "Oyntementes 
smoothe 
Of Lilyes in a Vase of Chrysolite." 

THE SEA ANEMONE 

To what faint-rhythmed cadence heard of none, 
What measured harmonies of limpid sound 
Are swayed the fragile rays that ring thee round 

Like the mist-halo of a vanquished sun? 

Milk-opal, crystal, cloudy selenite, 

Scarce through the veil of hueless water seen 
Against the lucent mosses, but with keen 

And sudden poignancies of frosty light. 

Of what vast wonder is thy beauty part? 
Of sunless gardens where the pendant fruits 

Gleam through the filmy dusk like the vague sphere 

Of the midday moon, of flowers that appear 
Bubbles held by a dream of stems and roots ? 

Or what the secret of thy dim sea-heart? 

[72] 



DEIRDRE 

A yearning wonder in the wind that kissed 

The shyly nodding sprays of blackthorn blossom, 
And terror in the sudden clinging mist 

A veil close drawn to hide a panting bosom. 
The plaintive crooning of the foamless water 

Grew to a voice that faintly sobbing cried 
"Naois brought the King of Scotland's daughter 

A white doe with her fawnling by her side." 
The low hills dappled mauve and dun and gold 

Deepened to violet, to crimson pale 

As though they knew her passing once again — 
That Rose of Sorrow, sweetest Rose of Old. 

And then beyond all suns I heard a wail, 
A cry of anguish for one lately slain. 

THE MOTHER OF MEROVEE 

As with both hands she backward drew the mass 
Of tawny hair that veiled her to the knee 
Heavy with wet, and forward leaned to see 

Mirrored as clear as in unwrinkled glass 

Shoulder and bosom smooth and rosy warm, 
And the sweet dimpling of her girlish throat, 
The blinding azure seemed to rise and float 

And dazzle toward her in a wondrous form 

Of ivory and gold and chrysoprase 

With fins that opalescent smote the spray, 

And locks that outward spreading hotly flamed 

Against the paler sunlight, and a face 
Of fierce inhuman beauty. Flee away? 

Too late — she waited shrinking and ashamed. 

C73 3 



ON THE MOSAIC 
OF A BYZANTINE EMPRESS 

Dear little sovereign of long ago, 

Against the dusty background olive-gold 
Your purple robes hang rigid fold by fold, 
In faultless arcs their jade-green linings show 
How royal — from the long vermilion shoon 
That prove your rank up to the massive crown 
That hides your closely braided hair, if brown 
Or dark or flaxen. Like the youngling moon 
Each perfect brow of yours — and those wide eyes 
Deep-lashed and solemn. Such a haughty mouth 
Whose folded scarlet like a frost-nipt bud 
Will yield its hidden sweetness in no wise 

For all the coaxing of the light-winged south — 
I love you well for all your scornful mood. 

Anna or Theodora or Irene — 

Whatever sweet, majestic name be yours, 

A palace will I build for you with towers 
Frail as the dreaming sprays of lilac seen 
Against a twilit sky; with domes as light 

As sun-gilt bubbles on a woodland brook; 

With latticed casements triple-arched that look 
On tiny courtyards paved with malachite, 
Onyx or alabaster. There shall be 

Close-carven sandalwood that smites the sense 
Like clash of elfin cymbals. And I know 
That once I have you under lock and key 

Behind those jewelled doors you go not thence — 
My little Empress of the long ago. 

C74H 



AUTUMN 

As Lais, Corinth's fairest courtesan 

Knowing her beauty had begun to fade 
Lest any matron, any shrill-voiced maid 
Should mock her, straight renounced all love of 

man — 
And hung her polished silver mirror high 
On Venus' statue where it might reflect 
Only the clouds with changing colors decked, 
The azure, snow and opal of the sky — 
So now doth autumn turn away her head 
To hide the touch of frost on velvet-red 
Of dahlias, on the perfumed cream and pink 
Of garden-asters on the maples' gold, 
And dreading her own image to behold 
Fills every pool with dead leaves to the brink. 

NARCISSUS 

Frail gold of locks unbound the timid breeze 
Scarce moves at all, and wide blue eyes that seem 
To draw into their depths the misty gleam 

From drowning buds of iris. Now, he sees 

Star-poised against the sombre loom of trees 
Whiteness of brow and neck, red lips apart 
As though to tempt from the sweet-brier's heart 

A poolward swirl of over-daring bees. 

One elbow sunk in argent-beaded cress, 
He lies; nor heeds the glinting dragonfly 

That hangs above his drooping head so light — 

A silver shred from some brook-naiad's tress 
But wastes his being in sigh on perfumed sigh 
And dwindles to a flower starry white. 

C7S] 



CINOUAINS 



WAITING 

The long 

Bleached paths are strewn 
With poplar-leaves, the wind 
Stirs the dead lavender, but no 
One comes. 



NIEGE 

White lace 

Hides her white breast 

As mist may hide the sweet 

Love-moon of May — or the cold moon 

Of snow. 

ESTHER 

"And if I perish, I perish" 

Her ear 

A monstrous pearl 
Adorned, and rubies clasped 
Her throat — Ahasuerus, or 
King Death? 

MIDSUMMER EVE 

Among 

Cool breathing fern 

And mint the rain would hide 

Her long locks sleek with wind, her wet 

Grey eyes. 

C79] 



THE HUMMING BIRD 

A FLASH 

Of bronze, a whir 

Of tingling emerald 

And from that wounded rose the slow 

Leaves fall. 

THE APPLE 

"Its seeds 
Burn on my lips. 
Nor fig nor musky plum 
Nor berry half so fiercely sweet," 
Quoth Eve. 

DRAGON-FLIES 

Sapphire 

And amethyst 

They link above the pool 

Such fragile love-rings shattered by 

A breath. 



MARY STUART 



A RING- 



A casket carved 

With fleur-de-lis — and of 

The world's Red Lily nothing more 

Than these? 



SAILS 

The clustered sails 

Of ships there in the bay 

Are wings of monster butterflies that sip 

Strange honey from the blue and white 

Sea flowers. 

THE FOUNTAIN 

A WILD 

Snow wraith at dawn, 

At noon a crystal rose, 

A silver witch, at dusk the gray 

Norn's tears. 

THE SHELL 

A LIP 

Of pouting rose, 

A cheek of freckled pearl, 

Needs courage try to win a chill 

Sea-kiss. 

SOULS 

The scent 

Of flowers, you say, 

Is the soul of them — alack, 

My slim white iris hath sinned and lost 

Her soul. 

[Si] 



SIRVENTE 

This summer eve 

A sad coquette must be — 

She wears such dainty pink, and for the patch 

On a court-lady's cheek displays 

The crescent moon. 

And when she hears 

How loverlike the wind 

Goes sighing — then how slyly glimmers like 

The dimple near a maiden's lip 

One tiny star. 

THE PRIESTESS 

I BUILT 

My altar-fire 

With myrrh and sandalwood, 

Hoping some bright-haired god and strong 

Would come. 

There flew 

From night and storm 

And sank upon my breast 

Wet-winged and spent with aimless flight 

A dove — 

AN OLD GARDEN 

Foxgloves wax-white, 

Pale yellow columbines, 

African daisies with their velvet hearts 

Rimmed twice around with fiery gold, 

And peonies — 



That splash their snow 

Crimson and sunrise pink 

Quite recklessly, and tall sweet-flags and wee 

Button-shaped roses, and again, 

More peonies. 

JEWELS 

Hathor, the queen 

Of Night, her carcanet 

Of diamonds and sapphires hath enclasped 

With the twin pearls of dawn and eve, 

Pale gems of woe. 

But Ra, the lord 

Of Day, hath wrought his zone 

Of amber and of turquoise. For a clasp 

He wears the great Sun-ruby, stone 

Of love and joy. 




